Members of the crew walked past me as if I were invisible. Two women with ghostly white-powdered faces. A man carrying a light. A lady balancing three coffees. All these people, and yet, bless my sweet luck, Beatrice was the first person who took notice of my presence.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Beatrice stood there in a skintight bodice and ballooning skirt that dragged the ground, holding a brownie and Coke. My brain went into calculator mode, and I totaled up her fat, calories, carbs, divided by the square root of her obnoxious scorn.
“I asked you a question,” she said.
I took a step back as another girl approached. Taylor Risdale, the queen of twentysomething movies. She was even more beautiful in person with her spun-honey hair and waifish figure. Her skin was airbrushed perfection; I couldn’t find a single blemish. I could hate her for that reason alone.
“What’s going on?” Taylor asked. “Another intruder?”
“I, um, came to see Beckett.” Why had I agreed to this? Because I needed Beckett’s truck.
“You came to see Beckett. Isn’t that sweet?” Beatrice bit into her brownie, and my stomach pulled at the sight of her red lips chewing.
“This is a closed set,” Taylor said with a little less hostility than her cousin.
“I know.” I looked past her for signs of Beckett. “I’m not here to stalk. I—”
“That’s what they all say.” Taylor laughed.
“Seriously, if you’ll let me explain.”
“Don’t embarrass yourself further.” Beatrice shook her head like a hassled mother. “Have a little dignity.”
I was losing my patience. And my courage. “Beckett asked me to be here.”
“Sure he did.” Beatrice took a delicate sip of her Coke. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
“Is there a problem?”
At the sight of Beckett, I wanted to weep with gratitude. Bob trotted along beside him, a soggy tennis ball in his teeth, and I knew I was rescued.
“I’m taking care of it.” Taylor slithered up next to him and wrapped her arm around his bicep. “Just another silly fan girl.”
According to the tabloids, these two had been dating for months in an on-again, off-again relationship that was as volatile as it was mysterious.
Beckett gave the girls a bland smile as Bob wagged his tail against his master’s knee. “I invited Finley.”
Taylor’s face froze as if she had just sat on a pair of fangs.
“Beckett, can I talk to you?”
“Later.” He extracted himself from her grip and stood beside me. “Finley’s my new assistant. Mary left, and I need some help.” I looked ridiculous standing next to Taylor. She was a model. A goddess. Beatrice might’ve been pretty, but she wasn’t perfect. She had some curves. And a bump on her nose.
“I could help you,” Beatrice said.
“No.” Beckett’s voice was smooth as an alto sax. “You have too much to do already. We need you fresh for your part. I couldn’t stand the thought that I had taken you from your true calling.”
“But—”
“Thanks anyway.”
Beckett took hold of my arm and steered me in the other direction. “Very smooth,” I whispered.
He looked down and grinned. “Beatrice? She’s not too bad.”
“Yeah, because when she’s around you she gushes with charm and oozes with kindness. Before you got there she’d sprouted demon horns and was hissing smoke.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got her number.”
“Oh, I’ll just bet you do.” On speed dial.
Beckett laughed, then pointed to a trailer. “That’s mine. Go on in.”
“If your next line is ‘make yourself more comfortable,’ I’m pretty sure my daddy would expect me to punch you in the nose.”
“Ciara’s waiting for me in there to touch up my makeup, and we can . . . what? That’s funny to you?” He opened the trailer door and Bob hopped inside.
“You come with your own makeup crew. I’m just going to need a minute to process this, Mary Kay.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked as he held the door for me to step inside. “Finley, this is Ciara, one of the makeup artists.” He handed me a script as he took a seat in front of the woman and her magical box of cosmetics. “Finley’s going to be helping me out, so make sure she feels at home.”
“Welcome, Finley.” Ciara looked about the same age as Erin’s mom, and her own face was makeup free and framed by a cherry Kool-Aid stripe of hair on either side. Her smile revealed a gap between her teeth that added to her rebel cuteness. “Oh.” She reached for a powder brush from a tool belt around her waist. “You-know-who showed up today.”
I flipped through the script and tried to fade out of the circle of their conversation. But looking through my lashes, I saw Beckett’s lips thin and his fingers tighten on the arm of the chair. “Thanks for the heads-up.” He turned to me, the smile back in place. “Page fifty-two. Let’s start from the top.”
As we read the scene, I watched Ciara touch up his vampire look. The makeup should’ve feminized Beckett, but somehow it didn’t. Ciara’s deft hand had only sharpened his edges, making him even more rough . . . dangerous . . . earthy. His clothing came straight from the 1800s, and the cut of the charcoal pants and jacket gave me a new appreciation for historical detail.
“There you go, boss.” She gathered up her brushes and put them away. “See you in ten.”
“Thanks, Ciara. Now take a break. You’ve been on your feet all day.”
“I’m gonna go read that book you gave me,” she said. “This boy”—she gave his shoulders a sisterly squeeze—“always reading books and passing them on. He’s yet to suggest a bad one.”
Ciara shuffled out of the trailer and the wind slammed the door shut, jarring Bob from his growl time with his ball.
“So . . . ,” I began.
“Don’t believe a word she said.”
“You read. And often, it seems.”
“She just said that to make me sound smart.”
“It almost worked.”
He tapped the script. “Start again.”
I flipped the page back to the beginning of the scene just as the door opened again. Bob’s ears twitched and his tail stopped wagging.
“Hello, son.”
A man who could’ve been Tom Cruise’s twin stepped inside. He pulled off his Ray-Bans and surveyed the room. “And you are?”
My eyes widened at his curt tone. I opened my mouth to respond, but Beckett beat me to it. “This is Finley. She’s my temporary assistant. Finley, meet me father, Montgomery Rush.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Rush held out his hand, and a large diamond sparkled on one of his fingers. “Beckett,” he said, dismissing me, “did you get that script I overnighted you?”
“Yeah. Bite Night the sequel.”
“And you read it?”
Beckett reached into a small refrigerator and pulled out two water bottles, handing one to me before twisting the cap on his own and bringing it to his lips. “Haven’t read it yet.”
“Get on it. We need to negotiate. Those terms they sent us are quite unacceptable. Read the script.”
“What’s the point?” He set his water down and eyed his father.
“It will be a slightly altered version of this movie. And the one before it. And the one before that.”
“And that’s why they pay us the big bucks. And this time”—his eyes lit up like Christmas—“they’re going to pay you double. I’ve got it all planned out.”
Beckett snapped his fingers for Bob, then opened the door, staring into the cloudy sky. “I’m just sure you do.”
Chapter Eight
• Breakfast: grapefruit, tea, no sugar/cream
• Lunch: soup, apple
• Calories: 425
• Exercise: 2 miles on bicycle
• Days ’til audition: 40
Dysfunction was apparently a family epidemic. I had it. I
didn’t know anyone who didn’t.
Bundled up against the wind, I sat at lunch outside the school with the girls and pondered the previous day’s weird exchange between Beckett and his dad. I’d read that his dad was his manager and very hands-on in his career. But apparently it’d been a successful formula. Otherwise Walmart wouldn’t carry Steele Markov dolls on their shelves and teenagers wouldn’t come in spastic herds to see the midnight openings of his movies.
“Don’t you like your soup?” Erin lifted her spoon to her mouth and peered at the barely touched thermos her mom had packed for me. “It’s still warm. You know, vegetables provide powerful antioxidants, which can delay the aging process. I was just reading this fascinating article yesterday—”
“Biscuits.” Orla popped a cookie in her mouth. “Become the doctor who figures out how to get antioxidants into biscuits.”
“It’s good,” I said. “I guess I’m just not hungry today.” It was the stress. My counselor told me when those feelings started to creep up I was supposed to pull out my favorite verse and say it out loud. Or in my head. Sometimes I got so sick of those verses. Other times I wished God would come by and skywrite them in the clouds. “Have you guys ever seen this?” I plundered through my backpack until I drew out my brother’s journal. It opened right to the last page. “This cross?”
Orla took a look first. “They’re all over the country.”
“You have to find that exact one?” Erin asked.
I quickly explained. “I can’t finish my song without it. And if I don’t finish my song, I’ll mess up my audition with the New York Conservatory. Again.”
“Cross yourselves.” Orla glared over my shoulder. “Here comes Beatrice.”
The queen bee and two of her ladies-in-waiting sauntered up to our table. “Hello, girls. What’s new in your little world?”
“We were just talking about music,” Orla said. “Music and soup.”
Beatrice tapped her long nails together as she speared me with her dark brown eyes. “What exactly do you think you were doing at the set yesterday?”
In no rush to respond, I stirred my spoon in my thermos and watched some carrots and potatoes do backstrokes in the broth. “Working?”
She planted a hand on her hip. “I know what you’re up to, and frankly, it’s pathetic.”
“Back off, Beatrice,” Orla said. “You’re just mad Beckett chose Finley and not you.”
Beatrice ignored this and continued to stare me down. “If you think he likes you, you’re delusional. He would never date a commoner. He only goes for actresses.”
“It’s a job. Not a dating opportunity. I don’t want to be part of your little movie clique. I agreed to be his assistant and in return, he’s helping me . . . with a project.” That’s all she was getting. I wasn’t telling her one more detail.
Anxiety spun like a cyclone within me, and the food suddenly became a solid mass in my stomach. I shoved it away to get it out of sight. The pasta started to look like worms, the meat greasy wads of some poor, sacrificed animal.
In all these things, I am more than victorious through Him who loves me. In all these things, I am more than victorious through Him who loves me. In all these things, I am— “Oh, I’ll just bet he’s helping you.” Beatrice’s top lip curled.
“Just watch yourself. The movie business is a world few understand and few can handle.”
Orla bit into an apple. “You’ve done a walk-on part for one movie and a commercial for socks.”
Beatrice lifted her pointed chin. “I’d hate for you to . . . get hurt or get in any trouble and have to cut your stay short in Abbeyglen. That would be terrible.” Her smile made my insides curl. “I’m just looking out for you. Like a friend. As the principal’s daughter, I feel it’s just naturally my job.” She flounced away with her two bodyguards, who cast dark looks over their bony shoulders.
“Was that a threat?” Orla asked. “I don’t like that.”
“Beatrice just has her nose out of joint,” Erin said. “She’s under the misconception that she has a chance to get in Beckett’s inner circle, and Finley’s become an unexpected threat. And the fact that you’re associating with us, instead of her—even worse.”
“It really is just a job.” I twisted the lid on my thermos. Ireland was supposed to be where I finally found peace.
God, why is turmoil following me like I’m in a bad soap opera?
“You’ve nothing to worry about.” Orla pointed to my soup.
“You going to eat that?”
“No.”
“Can I have it?”
“Yes.” I slid it her way. “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”
After school I hopped on my bicycle and pedaled away from Sacred Heart and toward Rosemore nursing home. Maybe I had caught Mrs. Sweeney on a bad day. Maybe she hadn’t felt good, and it had made her uncharacteristically cranky.
God, help me get through this. Because I’ve got nothing to offer someone who’s in the last stages of her life. Nor do I want to be around her. Please . . . help me.
Walking through the doors, I waved at Belinda the head nurse, smiled at the old woman in the wheelchair in the middle of the lobby, and followed the linoleum floor to hall C.
It’s about Mrs. Sweeney. It’s about Mrs. Sweeney.
Standing in front of room 12, I tapped my knuckles on the door, then peered inside. “Hello?”
She glared at me from her bed. “Go on with you.”
I stepped inside. “I think we got off to a really bad start, ma’am.”
“Don’t make me get out of this bed, child.”
I swallowed and kept on walking, getting closer to the dragon’s nest. “My name is Finley Sinclair. And I want to be your friend.”
She stared at me like I’d just offered her a time-share in the desert. “I don’t have the energy to deal with you today, so I’m telling you, leave my room!”
“I can’t do that, Mrs. Sweeney.” I inched in more. “You and I are going to hang out a bit. I brought a book.” I pulled out Pride and Prejudice from my bag.
“I don’t like reading.”
I unclenched my teeth. “Well, that’s no problem. I’m going to read for you.”
“D’you think you’re better than a television?” She threw her head back and gave a frail laugh. “At least I can press the mute button on the telly.”
Lord, you probably think this is funny, don’t you? I guess somehow I deserve this.
“Have you ever read Pride and Prejudice?”
“No,” she snapped. “I’ve no use for such romantic tales.”
I took a seat in the chair beside her. Then scooted it back three inches, just in case I needed to make a hasty exit. Or in case she ate children. “It’s a great book.” Actually I hadn’t read it. I figured everyone in the world had but me. Apparently, it was like the single girls’ Magna Carta.
“I don’t want to hear it.” Mrs. Sweeney turned her head and faced the wall. “I don’t know you, and I certainly don’t want to hear your voice prattle on.”
“I introduced myself. Do you remember that I’m from the school and—”
“Young lady, I do not have much time left.” Mrs. Sweeney shot every word like a bullet. “And I do not want to spend what little remains with the likes of yourself!”
That was it.
“You know what? I’m here to spread some dang goodness and light, and I can’t do that with you yelling at me!” Bloodshot eyes stared back at me as I stood. I might’ve been scaring her into a heart attack, but I couldn’t stop. “I have had it up to here with death, and guess who I get assigned for this dumb project? You! Not some sweet old grandma. Not some storytelling grandpa. You!”
Mrs. Sweeney crossed her bony arms over her flannel-covered chest and huffed.
“Now, you need me.” I stomped back toward her bed. “And I need to get my hours in. So we’re going to be friends. Whether you like it or not.”
“I’m calling the nurse.” She reached f
or her button. “I pay too much money for this place. I don’t even feel safe.” Her breath wheezed, and I felt a stab of guilt. “If this is what young people are like today, then the whole world is doomed. Doomed, I say!”
“I’m not leaving.”
“’Tis downright sinful to treat your elders in such a manner.”
I eased back into the chair, shoved it back another few inches, then opened the book. “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.’”
“Gibberish!” Mrs. Sweeney held her bony fingers over her ears.
“You’re talking nonsense. Where is that nurse?”
The door flung open and Nurse Belinda rushed inside. “This better be good.”
Mrs. Sweeney took two deep breaths, and again I reconsidered my stance. “This young girl here will not leave. She has taken over me room and invaded me privacy. I want her removed at once.”
“Did you do that—invade her privacy without her permission?”
I clutched the book to my chest. “Yes.”
“And did you refuse to leave after Mrs. Sweeney asked you to do so?”
My pulse skittered in my wrist. “Yes.”
Belinda shook her head. Then smiled. “Good on you.” She clapped me on the back and chuckled. “Now that’s what I like to see. Cathleen, you can shout all you like, but Finley is welcome to stay. In fact, I’m prescribing it.”
“You can’t prescribe anything,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “You’re not a doctor, sure yer not.”
“Then I’ll get him to write an order. You ladies have a fine day.” Whistling to herself, Nurse Belinda sauntered out, closing the door behind her.
With her lips pressed tight enough to vacuum seal, Mrs. Sweeney stared at me from her bed.
On the wall the third hand of a clock ticked off the seconds, reminding both of us time was slipping away. Time in that day. And in our two lives.
“If it’s any consolation,” I said after a moment, “this went much better in my head.”
There You'll Find Me Page 6